


Almost Like Praying

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Body Worship, Candles, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shotgunning, Songfic, Suggestion of Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-11 01:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Friends to Lovers. Holmes/Watson.Final Chapter: Watson ducks into a church to light a candle and is surprised. Fluff. Rating: Gen.





	1. Almost Like Praying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why do people attend church services regularly, Watson?”
> 
> Chapter Rating: Teen.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 7 prompt: Worship. Friends to Lovers. Holmes/Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for reference to Watson paying for sex.

“Why do people attend church services regularly, Watson?” asked the voice behind the newspaper

I slid my cup gently back in its saucer, then helped myself to a second slice of buttery goodness. “Oh, I don’t know. Habit. Sense of obligation. Guilt, of course. Desire to view other women’s hats _en masse_.” I chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Same reason people have carnal relations with each other, I suppose, except for the hats, of course.”

Now I don’t know if any of my gentle readers have ever had the sensation of not being quite certain if one’s private thought was, in fact, spoken aloud and then, upon looking up from one’s _Times_ and toast with marmalade still pleasantly stinging one’s tongue, conclude that, based on the mix of puzzlement and horror in the expressions of landlady and fellow lodger, that, yes, it was voiced. 

Unfortunately.

“So I’ve been told, of course,” I added quickly. “Wouldn’t know myself. Being a chaste widower. Oh, is it going to rain? My shoulder’s giving me fits. The one the bullet shattered, don’t you know? When I was being very brave, serving Queen and Country—"

I retreated behind a _Times_ unfurled in a manner most befitting a war veteran.

“Mrs. Hudson’s gone, Watson.”

I sighed. “Thank goodness.”

“Another question, if I might, Watson—”

“Can’t we talk about the rain?”

“She won’t be back for at least half an hour.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Is it the same set of reasons that one might visit a church irregularly, that is, at an hour when no service is being held?"

“No, that’s an entirely different matter. Ducking into a church is not akin to attending a service at all.”

And I blame the distraction of some very fine sausages on my plate that I did not realise the impetus behind Holmes’s questions sooner.

My temper flared.

“Have you been spying on me, Holmes?”

The newspaper fell as did, thankfully, the pretense.

“Yes. Work’s slow. The disruption in pattern was interesting.”

“Did you follow me inside?”

“No. But it was not the church where you attend service regularly. Say it is none of my affair and I’ll not speak of it again. But I am curious.”

I could see that, and, for once, I did not want Holmes’s full attention.

“One ducks into a church to light a candle.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Do you?”

“No. Is it like carnal relations or women’s hats?”

I brought my fist to my mouth to hide my snort, which failed when I caught the mirth in Holmes’s eyes and the flicker of a smirk on his lips. When my laughter finally subsided, I sighed and considered the question.

“The former,” I said, hearing the horrid wistfulness in my voice. Then I cleared my throat and said, “But this is talk for whiskey not tea. What are your plans for today, Holmes?”

And like a man of his word, Holmes left the matter where it lay.

* * *

Until that evening, when I had the prescribed drink in hand.

And Holmes might claim that I see but do not observe, but it didn’t escape my notice that the whiskey was poured from a bottle purchased earlier that day, one that was worth a quite few pounds more than that of our house stock.

Holmes wanted his curiosity satisfied. And was willing to compensate handsomely for it.

Well, well, well.

That _was_ curious.

He didn’t say a word, though, simply nursed his whiskey and soda and studied the fire.

Where to begin?

“It’s like that jack-knife,” I said, nodding to the blade transfixing Holmes’s unanswered correspondence to the centre of the mantlepiece. “The one your grandmother used to slit the throat of a Barbary pirate.”

“Matrilineal inheritance?”

I nodded. “She had her private, very private, devotions. But the youngest of the family is privy to things others are not. Rites, rituals, smell and bells. They brought her comfort when the world did not. Lighting a candle, well, it’s almost like praying. It’s the memory of a mother’s embrace. Love. And more. Communion. Union.”

“And the other? The regular.”

I could have hemmed and hawed, but damn it, I didn’t. Nevertheless, it took three long gulps and three long minutes for spirit to liberate speech.

“I thought it was time I, uh, enjoyed someone’s company, so I, uh, went somewhere.” I shook my head. “I regretted it from the moment I arrived and I have felt ashamed from the moment I left until now.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose between two fingers. “I don’t want to do that, ‘attend service regularly,’ I just want to duck in and light a candle. And have it mean something to me.” I was ridiculous. “Apologies, Holmes, the performance wasn’t worth the cost of admission.”

I raised my glass to him, then quickly drained it and got to my feet.

“Wasn’t it?” he asked.

I stopped and studied his profile in the firelight. “You understand?”

He smiled. “I hope so. Good night, Watson.”

* * *

Two days later, I returned to find a dozen votive candles in glass jars on my chest of drawers.

“Holmes.”

“Watson.”

I poured myself a whiskey from the good bottle, then splashed the soda about a bit.

“Would you like one, Holmes?” His brow furrowed slightly, and then I took the greatest risk of my latter years and added, “Or would you prefer a sip of mine?”

He looked up and studied me, my face in the firelight and said far too eagerly, “That’d be lovely, thank you, Watson.”

I stood. He sat. We drank.

When he gave the glass back for the last time, I refilled it and settled myself in my armchair.

And drank.

Holmes looked at me. I looked at Holmes.

We could take it slowly. We could ease into it politely. It would be the chivalrous, sensible, respectful, not to mention, prudent way to proceed.

So why did I feel as if I was taking up a dusty hymnal to sing a song I’d rather not?

I finished the second whiskey and stood.

“Watson—”

“Play.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get your violin. Play something. I’ll be but a moment.”

I made my way to the stairs.

“But Watson—”

I turned back and shouted,

“Sherlock!”

That stopped him. Cold.

“Sherlock,” I said much more softly and closed the distance between us, reaching out to brush his cheek. “Say it loud and there’s music playing. Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.”

“What’s that?”

I shrugged. And left Holmes to compose the most romantic ballad since Mendelssohn put _Lieders_ to page, one I will sing in my heart until my last breath.

* * *

I could only safely carry a half dozen down the stairs.

“Sit.”

Holmes sat.

I moved the coat scuttle and placed the small table that was normally at my right hand at Holmes’s. I cleared the tables and set two candles on each and one candle on either side of Holmes’s feet.

We were dancing. I was leading, and Holmes was following.

Without music. Without words. Without movement.

“Holmes.”

He waved a hand. “The other.”

I grinned. “Sherlock.”

He smiled a giddy smile. “Say it soft.”

“Sherlock.”

“It _is_ almost like praying.”

“Just wait until I light a candle.”


	2. Novena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson worships Holmes. Nine drabbles.
> 
> For the Day 17 Kinktober prompt: Massage

I knelt and lit the pair of candles by Holmes’s feet.

“You know, Holmes, your habits are as narrow and concentrated as those upon whom you rely for your deductions. The way you tie your bootlaces, for example, is as distinctive as the way the boy at the Turkish bath ties mine.”

I slip his slippers off and took his bare feet in my hands.

“These stalwart pedestals ramble and scale and rarely rest,” I mused as I massaged heel, arch, and toes. “I love them so.”

I placed a single kiss on the top of each and moved on.

* * *

I lit one of the two candles resting on each of the small tables that flanked Holmes’s armchair.

“My adoration of your hands is, I believe, part the public domain,” I remarked as I kissed, then nuzzled, each palm, “so I will dispense with the talk of delicacy of touch and fragile instruments and say that my favourite moment with your hands is when they cannot be seen, when they steal into mine and give me a shake at moments danger precludes other forms of reassurance and communication.”

“And with their plasters and spots and scars, they are you, Holmes.”

* * *

I pushed one of his sleeves up and began kneading the taut muscles of his forearm and wrist.

“We are brothers in arms, Holmes. When it’s a case of active work and you require a comrade, I am honoured that you call upon me.”

Holmes had been observing me keenly since the beginning, but when I started in on the fibres of his wrist, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. Writing, experiments, all the work on minute scale that Holmes performed took their toll on these delicate joints.

I eased the tension with firm, but gentle fingertips.

* * *

Holmes opened his eyes and smiled with amusement as I climbed onto the chair, perching myself precariously on the arms and hoping that they’d hold my weight.

I lit the last two candles. Now all six votives burned brightly.

“I hope I am not reaching when I say that I believe myself a whetstone for your mind, Holmes.”

“Reach,” he urged in a thick voice.

My fingertips rubbed his scalp. “Perhaps I should have been a barber instead of an Assistant Surgeon.”

I heard him swallow. “Your skill, this one in particular, would have been much sought after, Watson.”

* * *

I climbed down from the chair, then lay myself atop him like a blanket.

“Your neck is most handsome in profile, lit by street lamp, in silhouetted against a dark hansom cab.”

I put my lips to his fluttering pulse and counted.

“To or return journey?”

I smiled. “Return. Case closed. Evil trounced. Good triumphant. Do you know how much scandal I would cause if I acted on my impulse?”

“Do it now.”

I licked. I nibbled. I kissed. I breathed my ‘I love you’ onto his wet skin.

“Yes. Far too much scandal. Might we continue this in chapel?”

* * *

He nodded to his bedroom door.

“May I take the candles?” I asked.

“I insist,” he said. “And I have two to add to the ceremony.”

Now there were eight, two long tapers in candlesticks to add to the six short votives.

Holmes laid prone on his bed. I straddled him and leaned forward to run my hands over skin bathed him in the warmest, softest of light.

I schooled my voice to match the candle glow.

“Your back is a work of art, Holmes. It straightens. It crooks. It carries your burdens.”

I kissed along the length of his spine.

* * *

I inched backwards toward the foot of the bed.

“Watson?”

I opened my mouth wide, then sank my teeth into one of Holmes’s buttocks, taking in as much of his skin and flesh as my oral cavity allowed.

Holmes jumped, then chuckled.

“What a beastly supplicant you are!” he teased. Then he pushed up onto his forearms and wriggled his posterior invitingly.

I repeated my assault on the other buttock.

Hands and mouth. Kneading and biting. Squeaks and laughter.

“Museum or picture gallery, Watson, what’s the most appropriate venue for me?”

“You have the crudest ideas of the art, Holmes.”

* * *

“Turn,” I ordered.

Holmes turned.

“Watson.” Holmes petted my head.

I spread his legs and dipped low to take one of his bollocks in my mouth and suckled, caressing the wrinkled, hairy skin with a hidden tongue.

“Watson, Watson.”

I switched sides.

“Oh, my. Watson, if this is how you worship,” Holmes’s voice was delightfully strained, deliciously hoarse, “may I say that I’m exceedingly grateful your attendance of church services had declined of late.”

I grinned, then released him. I’d thought to slide up the bed, but couldn’t resist giving his wet bollocks a last look. And then few more licks.

* * *

Then I did slide up.

“Heavens, you’re gorgeous,” I whispered. “Feet, hands, arms, head, neck, back, buttocks, bollocks. And that’s what I call a novena.”

“Forgive me, Watson, but if my Latin doesn’t fail me, there should be nine.”

I eyed Holmes’s stiff prick. “What would you like? My hand, thighs, mouth, or I could, with a bit of readying, offer a tight hole.”

“Devotion is a heady brew, Watson.”

“Yours, the mysterious ways,” I said later as I lowered myself on Holmes’s prick.

“But yours the wonders to perform. Almost like praying.”

“Sherlock,” I murmured.

“Watson!” he ejaculated.


	3. Burn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b. Burn. A drip of wax brings Holmes out of his thoughts. Rating: Gen.
> 
> For the Kinktober Day 16 prompts: Waxplay & Masks.

Holmes stifled a cry of alarm. I fitted the candle back into its holder.

“Apologies. Words were not reaching you. And I dare not shout. The taper was handy.”

“And the wax quite effective,” he said, scraping the opaque drips off his torso with a fingernail. “My apologies, too. Not a winning quality in a lover, is it? ‘Easily distracted.’”

“You think,” I said, soothingly. “The bedroom’s not so far from the sitting room. What were you thinking of?”

“Masks.”

“The black silk ones that we used to burgle Charles Augustus Milverton’s estate have been commandeered by Mrs. Hudson and Bessie for their Hallowe’en costumes.”

“Have they really?”

“Yes. And your rapiers, so your best behavior wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Indeed. I was thinking of false hair and other elements of disguise I don in my work. And the less tangible, but much more insidious veneer of a respectable Victorian gentleman. If you had not offered to share your whisky, Watson, coward that I am, I would still be wearing that mask.”

“You are still a gentleman, Holmes. Worthy of respect.”

He took my hand, kissed it, then let it drop. “You are the braver,” he murmured, then added, nodding at the candle with a mischievous grin. “But might you try that again?”

“What, the wax?”

“Yes, I quite fancy the burn.”


	4. Smoke.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes smokes Turkish cigarettes. 
> 
> For the Kinktober Day 26 prompt: shotgunning

“Watson.”

Holmes groaned and pushed himself to sitting with no little effort. Once upright, however, he slumped back rakishly against the head of the bed, bending his arms at the elbows so that his hands rested behind his head. He looked at me through half-lidded eyes and smiled the crooked smile of a well-fed, night-worn tomcat.

“The metaphors are beginning to escape me,” he said wearily. “Am I god? Or temple? Or collar of beads rubbed by the faithful supplicant?” He drew out the sibilant of the final word in a manner most naughty.

“You are cheek incarnate. The Word was made a long, delicious strip of flesh and dwelt ever so temptingly amongst us.”

In a reversal of roles, his eyes lingered on my hand. I was perched precariously at the other end of the bed, legs splayed, idly fondling my own bollocks for our mutual amusement and arousal.

He flattened to the bed like a desert lizard and wiggled towards my attending hand.

“For all your ducking in, you are a blasphemous devil, aren’t you, Watson?”

I had no reply for speech fled when his tongue took the place of my hand. He licked and suckled sacs as well as the perineum I offered. I gripped his head by the hair too tightly and threatened to pitch us both on the floor as I pushed into his lips.

I was stiff to bursting when he drew away.

“Cheek incarnate, hmm? Well, in that case, I’ll smoke with or without permission. This chapel wants a bit of incense, don’t you think?”

I made a noise of protest as his abandonment, but said, “Perhaps, after Mrs. Hudson and Bessie leave for their All Hallows’ Eve fancy dress tea, we should air this place out a bit.” Though inure myself, I suspected that the room reeked of bodies at lust.

“Thoughtful,” murmured Holmes as he glided, all languor and grace, to the wardrobe, then rummaged about. He produced a box and turned the row of dark, slender cigarettes towards me.

“A gift from the Sultan of Turkey after I handled that commission to his satisfaction. I’ve not tried them yet. Would you care for one?”

“I’d much rather have a puff of yours,” I said.

He smiled. “Ah, my whiskey philosophy. Do you know, Watson, my friend Utterson the solicitor once said he drank gin to mortify his taste for vintages. I thought it a horrific philosophy and decided to invert it, among other ideas of his, for my own purposes. I hardly ever drink whiskey unless for disguise, politeness, or seduction.”

“Your own seduction or mine?”

“Assuredly the former, but ideally, ours.”

I grinned, then shrugged. “Well, I can understand that. The only cigarettes I smoke are from that place in Bond Street, unless, of course, it’s second hand, because the first hand,” I eyed his fingers wantonly, “ought to be otherwise occupied.”

Holmes lit the cigarette by the candle flame.

“Bad luck, that,” I observed.

“In your care, I consider myself quite invulnerable to misfortune,” he replied.

He drew on the cigarette, then blew out a perfect smoke ring. He placed the cigarette between his lips once more and slicked one of his hands with unguent from a jar on the bedside table.

My cock twitched in anticipation.

Holmes moved closer and drew on the cigarette once more. When he spent the smoke into my mouth, his lips were as close as they could be to mine without touching.

I inhaled, taking the sharp, acrid vapour into me and holding it for a moment, then releasing it as Holmes’s hand glided up and down my prick.

“Again,” I begged.

“Yes,” he answered in the same needy tone.

Breath by breath, stroke by stroke, I lost reason, a state Holmes must’ve shared for he began to mumble between our communal puffs.

“I would have you snuff this cigarette out on me, Watson. Smoke the lot, plead until your soft heart conceded and each ember-tip was extinguished in my skin; that I might be scarred for the rest of my life by this tableau, that this moment of union might be branded upon my skin, seared into my physical being as it is in my mind. That I might look at my charred flesh and remember in the knots and whorls precisely how and how much I was once loved.”

“How you are loved and will be loved, Holmes, whilst I still retain breath,” I said hoarsely. “And I say, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch you smoke those in public without causing a scandal.”

“Oh, rapture!” he exclaimed and kissed my lips.                           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of Utterson is my favourite line from _The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ : he was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years.
> 
> Also the best shotgunning fic in the larger Sherlock Holmes fandom is the BBC Sherlock Smoulder by keelywolfe.


	5. All Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson ducks in to a church to light a candle. Rating: Gen. Fluffy ending.
> 
> A 'thank you' for showing this fic some love. A donation of $175 was made to the Hispanic Foundation's Hurricane Maria Relief efforts. Besos a todos!

_There was Mother and Mary, of course, though I wasn’t certain that theirs wasn’t the previous day, having souls, of course, but being closer to saints for all they had endured in their lifetimes. Then there were Father and Harry. I was_ quite _certain which day was theirs. There were patients, yes, more than a few this year, unfortunately; schoolmates, one or two; fellow soldiers, scores; victims of Holmes’s cases, including Cardinal Tosca, Peter Carey, let’s see..._

My list grew longer and longer as I passed through the heavy wooden doors and slipped quietly into a side chapel.

There was only one occupant. I recognised the silhouette at once.

“Holmes! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Would you believe a sudden conversion, road to Damascus by way of Bond Street?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

I knelt beside him. “This is not done, Holmes. If you aren’t here to worship—”

“On the contrary. Why moments before your arrival, I lit a candle,” he nodded toward the rows of votive candles sitting in glass jars in a brilliant gold case at the foot of the statue, “and said a prayer.”

I harrumphed. “A prayer of what?”

“A prayer of gratitude,” he said. “For the wisdom of Providence in bringing a certain wounded soldier to a certain hospital laboratory on a certain day so many years ago. For the saving of a soul, mine, of course. For bravery and a glass of whiskey. For you, Watson.”

I turned my head and scanned his face for signs of jest and found none. One corner of my lips curled in a smile and I said simply, “Mister _Sherlock_ Holmes.”

He blushed, and we both looked back at the votive candles. I saw our reflections in the gold case.

What a pair we made!

Then I remembered my purpose. “I ducked in here to light candles for Mary and Mother and...” I began.

Holmes waved a hand. “Don’t let me stop you, Watson.”

Easy enough to say, of course, but not as easy to do, that is, to go about my religious observations while the most observant man in the world was observing me.

But I managed. And added one more soul to my list.

A living one.

When I’d finished the lighting and the praying, I kept my head bowed and murmured, “You are a blessing, Holmes. I hope our,” I winced at the word and my cowardice, “association is a long one.”

“Until my dying day, Watson,” Holmes vowed, then added cheekily, “however many I have in this lifetime. Difficult to say.”

I snorted and coughed and hid my smile in my hand. “Holmes, you are incorrigible, and this is not the place.”

He smiled and fixed his eyes on the candles. “Very true.” Then he looked up and studied the ceiling. “I see the attraction of this place, my dear Watson.”

“Oh, yes? If you ever want to visit together, you needn’t follow me as if I am a criminal—"

“I wasn’t following _you_ ,” he interrupted. A shadow passed across the gold case. Holmes’s voice was now a faint, urgent and wholly professional whisper. “There goes the man responsible for the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca! Come, Watson! The game’s afoot! You don’t come armed.”

“To a church on the Feast of All Souls, no, Holmes, I don’t—”

“I know. That’s why I brought your revolver with me.” He pressed it to me. “Solving crimes, well, it’s almost like praying, too, isn’t it? Come at once, or his Holiness will be most disappointed.”

I said a prayer and a curse and hurried after him.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song for Puerto Rico hurricane relief recorded by Lin-Manuel Miranda and many other artists [Almost Like Praying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1IBXE2G6zw).


End file.
